


Sharper Swords, Part II.

by guttersharkk



Series: Sharper Swords [2]
Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Drabble Sequence, Heavy Angst, Love/Hate, M/M, Neglect, Rage, Shingeki no Kyojin: Kuinaki Sentaku | Attack on Titan: No Regrets, Unresolved Emotional Tension, Violent Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-22
Updated: 2015-11-22
Packaged: 2018-05-02 20:41:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 590
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5262845
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/guttersharkk/pseuds/guttersharkk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A weary heart riots in the bony trappings of his chest and Mike swallows hard, nearly chokes on the pressure. He grits his teeth instead, envisioning Erwin in his office - a false idol gilded in honey. But tonight he scents the vinegar in every word that’s ever passed between them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sharper Swords, Part II.

**Author's Note:**

> The not-exactly-immediate continuation of my first Sharper Swords drabble. Uhm. These two cause me significant emotional distress, so feel free to join me in this fresh EruMike hell.

The hour is godless. The halls are empty. Mike slips silently through the shadowy cloisters of the barracks, birthed anew in the lunar glow of the old castle’s high windows. Darkness and light. Death and rebirth. There’s a pale phoenix rising in the dichotomy of every step. There’s a dusting of ash in each footfall.

_You promised. You promised. You promised._

A weary heart riots in the bony trappings of his chest and Mike swallows hard, nearly chokes on the pressure. He grits his teeth instead, envisioning Erwin in his office - a false idol gilded in honey. But tonight he scents the vinegar in every word that’s ever passed between them.

_You lied. You lied. You lied._

His hands are trembling; his tongue is thick and sluggish with rage. How many times has he borne the cold of Erwin’s shoulder and the silence of his tongue? How many sunrises has he watched, still patiently waiting on a midnight rendezvous? But not this time. Not again. Every stride is purposeful, powerful, as he bears down on the prodigal squad leader. Tongues of candlelight nip wantonly at the flagstone beneath the office door, and that is all the invitation he needs out here in the gloom.

Mike’s voice reverberates in the cold stone; it draws Erwin’s attention and shames him succinctly. The squad leader drops his gaze, cheeks rosy with embarrassment, and murmurs a soft apology. He attempts to assuage him with tales of lost time, of all the work yet to be done; he begs Mike’s forgiveness. But Mike denies it - grabs him by the collar and shoves him hard against the wing-back chair, disturbing the Erwin-shaped rut in its leather. He hisses and spits his fury in Smith’s face - watches with hateful satisfaction as those painfully blue eyes redden and well with understanding. His teeth are bared, his knuckles are white with the intensity of his grip and he lays into the smaller man again, and again, and again. He doesn’t stop until Erwin’s tears stain the cuffs of his jacket - not until he raises his hands to clutch at Mike’s shirt, not until he sobs and pleads with him to stay.

“ _Is it that late already_?”

Erwin’s greeting is gentle, repentant.

“It is.”

Mike’s spiteful fantasy dissolves around them leaving Erwin hunched at his desk and a lump in his throat. There’s no fight in Erwin tonight; he sees it in the way his shoulders sag beneath the weight of his thoughts, in his hazy eyes and the ink darkening his fingertips. He could end it, he thinks solemnly. He could end it here and now with the first honest words out of his mouth in months and save them both the trouble of dragging this dead horse. But Erwin would let him, he realizes in dismay. This man would let him walk away without a contrary word - an admission to the value of their relationship that Mike isn’t sure he can stomach.

The anger seethes then recedes and settles deep in his bones for another time. Fear replaces it.

“Come to bed?”

He hates the way his voice waivers - tentatively pitched when he wants to command. Erwin doesn’t seem to notice as he pushes himself from his chair, and there’s a flicker of something deep in his gut - hope, maybe - but the spark is weak. Too little, too late.

They don’t speak on the walk back. They don’t speak as they undress and crawl into bed.

Erwin rolls to one side, facing the wall.

Mike watches the sunrise.


End file.
